


A Sin Remade

by Winterstar



Series: Empathia [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Fantasy, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-22
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-04 03:29:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterstar/pseuds/Winterstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world has changed and Peter and Neal are caught in the web.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sin Remade

Title: A Sin Remade  
Author: dmk0064 aka winterstar  
Rating: PG13  
Warnings: AU fic, some non-descript violence  
Genre: hurt-comfort, angst, AU  
Spoilers: any and all  
Summary: Part of the Empathia series. Neal and Peter are abducted. Neal must get a wounded Peter to safety while he suffers from deprivation. 

Awareness comes in slowly like the tide reaching the shore in ever increasing waves. Sound crashes into him and he shuffles away from it, since the noises bash into his head like a the waves against a rocky shore. He swallows down the bile rising in his throat and notices that his mouth is parched but also there is a rag stuffed into it. Choking, he tries to spit out the rag and realizes that it has been secured in place with a rope around his head. Trying to lift his hands to remove it is impossible as well, since his hands are locked behind his back.

He allows himself a moment of pure panic, but fights it back and blinks to get his bearings. The cloth bag his abductors put over his head is still in place and he struggles not to let the panic rise again. Instead, Neal concentrates on his hands, his wrists. It is unfortunate he wasn’t conscious when they decided to bind him with the coarse ropes winding around his arms and wrists. He could have positioned his wrists in such a way to make an escape virtually a given, but now the threaded ropes will take some time to slip.

With the bag over his head and the rag stuffed in his mouth, Neal finds breathing a whole new adventure. He drags in breathes but they are stale and ineffectual. The hangover from the nine iron to the head causes the world to ooze in and out and he finds himself drifting on the waves again. Swimming up toward consciousness and then failing, falling back into the depths again, continues throughout an extended period of time. Each time he reassesses his state, finds it unchanged, then falls back again before he’s able to unknot the ropes around his wrists.

At one point, he recalls being hoisted out up and towed to a small room. Someone hits him in the solar plexus and he gulps for air through the rags. They tug down his pants and he puts up some resistance until he realizes they want him to urinate in a jar. He cringes but figures he better follow instructions since he has no idea when the next time he’ll be able to relieve himself. After he’s finished and they insult him a few times, they adjust his pants. He’s hit again in the back of the head, this time with the butt end of the gun they’ve been using to threaten him. He crumples in a heap and they grab hold of his ankle and bring him back to his cell.

For the first time, he wishes he had the anklet on. For the first time, he wishes he hadn’t fought for freedom from the Empathia embedded GPS tracker. They deposit him in a large storage trunk and close the lid, imprisoning him. With some luck, he’s able to not fall on his roped hands. He’s stuffed into the trunk at an awkward angle, but at least all of his weight is not coming to bear on his hands. He can work toward freedom easier with his arms unencumbered. 

He curses and hopes he doesn’t have to rely on letting his wrists get bloody to use as lubricant to slip the ropes. He hates doing that, it hurts and it doesn’t showcase his skills. He has to admit even in situations like these, Neal likes to impress. He gropes for the knot, examining it with closed eyes though his visual field is hampered by the bag over his head. As he identifies the type of knot, he hears another sound. There’s a crash and a definite huff. 

Peter.

He hasn’t allowed his mind to stray to the idea of Peter being captured as well. He’d hope that when they were separated by Linganore and her crew that Peter had tipped off the surveillance van and he’d escaped. Now, as he listens through the thick sides of the trunk, he hears muffled sounds of someone being beaten. 

Peter. He closes his eyes again and works the rope. He has to concentrate, forget what he’s hearing. This is his fault. He maneuvered Peter into a corner once he’d revealed his true inner Empathia. He negotiated the tattoo on his wrist signifying his rank without the GPS tracker. 

Most Empathia were tattooed and implanted with a GPS tracker as soon as they came of age. Neal refused his heritage and never transformed, never felt the bliss of the sun’s light working through him to heal until Peter had been fatally injured. He hadn’t a choice, he’d do it again. It meant, though, that he was forever branded as Empathia.

Empathia, a blessing and a curse.

Linganore wanted the list. At the White Collar unit in New York City, the list of all known Empathia living in the United States had been secured. A new day dawned when Neal negotiated his deal. He would be tattooed, or as he like to call it and Peter hated to hear it, branded but no GPS chip would be slid under his skin. It seemed a step in the right direction to Neal, a new way of looking at the Empathia.

He listens as he glides the bonds around his wrists; his movements are gentle, refined. To slip a rope, there should never be tugging or pulling. He discerns there are two, possibly three people in the room with their victim. 

From the sound of it, one is directing and the other two applying the beating. He hears Peter’s voice and his heart clenches. Even as Peter struggles to remain unmoved by their torture, his words are tainted with pain.

“Linganore, don’t make this any worse for yourself. Holding an F.B.I. agent is bad enough.”

“Please don’t try and waste my time, Agent Burke. We all know that your Empathia doesn’t have an implanted GPS. It isn’t difficult to figure that one out, you know.”

The distinct sound of someone being kicked, then punched ricochets in Neal’s head like an obsessed ping pong ball. His hands falter and he starts again, reversing the mistake he’s made with the ropes as he listens to Peter. 

“We have him, your Empathia, you do know that,” Linganore’s voice is soft, almost quiet like she is comforting a baby. “He hasn’t seen the sun in more than a day. Do you know what happens to an Empathia when they are deprived of even a drop of sunlight for an extended period of time?”

Peter doesn’t answer. No one needs to answer the question, because everyone knows. Neal freezes. More than a day? He’s been in and out of consciousness for how long? His hands shake and he loses his grip on the knot, on the loose end of the rope. It hadn’t been a problem in prison, not seeing the sun for days on end. He hadn’t undergone the transformation until during his tenure as Peter’s CI. Sun deprivation is worse than hunger, worse than thirst. He could die in less than twelve hours, if he doesn’t find his way to freedom.

He swallows down his fear, tells himself it’s a con. Linganore likes to play games, she’s good at it. She always has been. Neal creases his forehead as he blocks out the sounds of Peter and his tormentors. He goes back to the knot and follows its course, through and under, over and twist. In minutes, his wrists fall apart and he’s free. His first instinct is to lift the lid of the trunk, but he decides against it. He yanks the bag off his head and unties the rope holding the gag in place. He spits out the rag and then shifts to place his hands on the top of the trunk. He just wants to see if there’s any give. There isn’t. The trunk is locked. 

He explores the trunk with his hands. He cannot move around, his legs are bent and close to his chest. There must be some kind of ventilation otherwise he would have been dead hours ago. He jolts out of his search when Peter cries out from a severe blow. 

“You won’t kill him,” Peter laughs. His words are garbled as if Linganore’s stuffed Peter’s mouth with rocks. “He’s too valuable.”

“That’s true,” Linganore hisses and she says something to Peter which he cannot make out. Peter scoffs then she yells, “His survival is not in question, how he survives is. So Agent Burke, tell me about the list. Where are the other Empathia?”

Another sharp exhale from Peter and Neal chances upon a small hole dug into the side of the trunk. It isn’t large, but it’s suffices to permit fresh air into his prison.

“You know they say that even on cloudy days an Empathia can gather some sun to survive, though not enough to heal.” Her voice is tantalizingly close until Neal realizes she must be standing right next to the trunk. A weight depresses the top of his prison and he knows she’s sitting on top of it. “Give me the location of the other Empathia and I will offer him enough sunlight to more than survive.”

When Peter doesn’t respond, Linganore screams at him and leaps off the crate. He can hear a series of swift kicks and a crash of something heavy slamming into Peter. The cry of pain from Peter takes his breath away as if he’s been punched. His chest hurts and he pushes against the lid of the trunk. Even as he lifts his head, he notices the world waver, drop, and fall. 

More than a day, she said, he’d been locked inside this thing for more than a day. His hands shakes, cold sweat pours from his temples to streak and dampen his hair. As a con man, he understands the subtle art of psychological warfare. Is she bluffing? Does Peter know how long they’ve been captured? 

Silence empties the room like a vacuum. He weighs whether or not Linganore and her thugs are still in the room, as he strains to hear if Peter is there, is alive.

After minutes creep by, Neal calls out, “Peter?”

His fears sharpen when no answer comes. He bangs on the top of the trunk with a closed fist. His body shudders, rebels against him. He takes a deep breath in through his nose and pushes it out through his mouth after holding it for a few seconds. He repeats to calm himself. 

Take stock, Caffrey. 

He fumbles in the enclosed space, looking for clues. There isn’t much light, in fact it is nearly perfect dark within the trunk except for the tiny air hole and the seam he can see which outlines the lid. He stops when he notices the latch in the seam. It isn’t a difficult one to pick, not from the outside. From within, it’ll be difficult. He pats down his shirt, the seam of his cuffs. Smiling he tears away at his shirt cuff and pulls out his wire pick. It isn’t the greatest pick, but it’ll do in a pinch.

He’s calling this a pinch.

Working the instrument through the seam, he slides the wire into the back of the latch. He dates the trunk to be from the thirties or forties. He rummages around trying to find the pin hole. It takes a few tries but finally he’s in. He remembers to think backwards and twist the wire in the opposite direction he would naturally turn to break the mechanism. He feels the resistance, slides forward, catches the mechanism, then tugs a bit to the side. It gives and he hears the lock fall open.

He gives the lid a shove but it doesn’t open. He was afraid of that possibility. Not only was the truck locked, but it is latched on each side. He searches his pants, his shirt, and glances upon his cufflinks. They are too wide to slide through the seam in order to push the latches free, but he can probably re-enforce the wire pick and use it to navigate the seam. He macgyvers it and slips it through the opening. By this time, his hands tremble so much it is difficult to keep hold of the small tool. He drops it twice. The dexterity he’s used to relying on drains from him with a slow ebb and flow. He bites back his fear and hits the latch. It pops open. He works on the opposite one, taking care of wipe the sweat from his eyes, though he cannot really see anything. The ching of the latch falling brings music to his ears and he sighs.

Before he lifts the lid, Neal eases back for a moment to get his bearings. His heart races, his hands cramp. It feels like he hasn’t eaten in days, he tastes sand. Only minutes, he promises himself. He only has to get Peter, find a way out, and he’ll be outside. The lid flies open and he tumbles out of the trunk. The circulation in his legs streams blood into his joints, his ankles, and feet. It aches and he stifles a moan. 

The room is long and dark with no windows. There is a bit of light coming from a grate above the door. He sees a lump on the floor and scrambles over to it. 

“Peter?” He feels for a pulse and finds one – it is strong and perfect and right. He nearly cries. He puts a hand on his shoulder and rolls him to his back. “Peter?”

Bruises swell over half his face and Neal bets he’ll have a good shiner on the other side as well. He pats Peter down, searching not only for injuries but also for cell phone, weapons, anything that might be useful. There are no hidden treasures and Neal swears. He’ll have to introduce Peter to some of the finer points of being on the dark side another time.

A low groan alerts him that Peter is coming around. “Peter?”

“Neal?” Peter lifts his head, only to drop it again. He stares up at the ceiling and inhales a deep breath. 

“Where are you hurt?”

Peter shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter, get out of here.”

Neal rolls his eyes and realizes Peter probably cannot see him in the low lighting of the room. “Don’t pull that hero crap on me, Peter. Where are you hurt?”

“I think they broken my leg,” Peter says as he struggles to sit up. “Or at least really beat the shit out of it.”

Neal focuses on the leg in question. He doesn’t feel any overt breaks but Peter hisses as he tries to bend the leg. “Well, I guess I’m the crutch here.” He looks over his shoulder at the door, then back at Peter. “Listen, I have to pick the lock on the door. Do you have any other wounds I should be looking over. You know, big time bleeders?” He wonders if he should take the time to try and heal Peter, even if the ability to use Empathia has been diminished he should still be able to make a difference. 

Peter frowns but looks over himself before he starts to melt back onto the floor. Neal stops him, cradling him to sit back up again. “No, no, you don’t. You need to sit up.”

Peter doesn’t put up an argument and Neal sees this as a bad sign. He doesn’t voice his concern, but makes it over to the door. The lock is simple and it’s picked in seconds as he works his cufflink/wire tool into the mechanism. Listening at the door, he hears nothing so he swings it open. The hall is empty and Neal glimpses a porch outside the window. He peaks his head back into the room and checks on Peter. 

He needs to map an escape route, and then decide when he can heal Peter. He glides out of the room and slips to the end of the hallway to the window. There is an adjoining hallway that leads to a door to the porch. Neal glances outside for a moment and watches as the rain pours in heavy sheets.

He’ll need to heal Peter now, before the lack of sun exposure causes anymore damage, before he cannot make it himself. Whatever reserves he has left will have to be given to Peter. Without a sound, he makes it back to the room. He hasn’t seen any signs of Linganore and her men. 

Peter props himself up into a sitting position and he is trying to get up when Neal arrives. He kneels by Peter’s side and starts to pull apart his pant leg. 

“What are you doing?” Peter says.

The strength in his hand falters and he has to lean down and tear at the fabric with his teeth. He needs flesh on flesh contact. “I’m healing you.”

Peter knocks him off. “No, we don’t have time. You don’t have the reserves. We’ve been here too long, I estimate about thirty hours, Neal.”

This stops him. He stares at his hands on the fabric, tense and trembling. “Six hours, then.” 

“You can’t heal me, now,” Peter says as he grips Neal’s arm. “It’ll kill you.”

Neal drops the hem of Peter’s pants and inhales. “Okay, then we get out of here. Together.” He isn’t arguing this point; he doesn’t care what their chances are together. He has to get Peter out. 

Peter reaches over and grabs hold of Neal’s hand. Not many people touch Neal anymore, flesh to flesh. His captors used gloves. The bond grows between Empathia and those close, those willing to touch. It occurs to Neal, then, that Peter experiences his weakness, the lessening of his substance. 

“We can do this,” he assures as he stands then heaves Peter to his feet. They wait a moment for Peter to stabilize as he hisses through the pain. Neal almost drops, almost bends to reach out and touch Peter. The compulsion to heal is like a living thing, especially those bonded to him. 

Peter calls out his name, jolts him back to reality. “Neal.” 

Neal swallows down the need and shift to help Peter down the hallway. They don’t have much time. He isn’t sure what Linganore is waiting for or what her next step will be. He’s fairly certain she’ll plan on retrieving him from the trunk soon, since his time is nearly up. How the hell she plans on helping him when there seems to be a damned hurricane raging outside, he doesn’t know. Sunlamps and heat lamps or injections don’t work. Only the sun.

Empathia are rare for a reason. It is a dangerous thing to take on the skin of an Empathia.

Neal leads Peter through the hallway to the door. He shoulders it open and, with Peter’s arm slung over him, steps down on to the muddy path. They are immediately drenched. The wind howls and bends the trees in alarming angles. He can barely make out the house not three feet away from them. 

Peter points to the wooded area beyond the house. There doesn’t seem to be any other houses or signs of civilization anywhere within walking distance. Their first order of business is to conceal themselves and then find help. Neal nods and treks toward the treeline. He curses as the mud seeps over the lip of his shoes and knows the shoes will be ruined. Keeping his balance though takes his mind off the ruin of good leather ware. The wooded area isn’t far and Neal notes there are a few cars in the drive way. He considers if they should try and steal one. Peter is determined to get to cover first, so Neal concedes the issue.

The canopy of leaves affords them some protection from the driving rain. Peter slips off of Neal’s shoulder and stumbles to the ground with a loud cry. Neal collapses next to him, the strain of the short walk, the weight of Peter, and the aching weakness in his joints contributing to his fall. What’s left of his suit is completely covered in mud. He lies on his side, as Peter sits propped up against the tree.

“Can you hotwire a car?” Neal says, his voice sounds very far away. The energy, the adrenalin of escaping the trunk, the house, and getting Peter to safety drains away. 

“Not really,” Peter says.

“Can you see what kinds of cars are in the drive way?” Neal asks and swallows down too much saliva accumulating in his mouth. 

Peter forces himself up and, using the trees as crutches, crosses closer to the edge of the wooded area. “Two late model Toyotas and an old VW bug.”

As Peter flops down next to him, Neal laughs. “What?”

“VW bug, the first car I ever stole.” Neal shivers as the rain pelts them. The cold devouring his bones, stalling all blood in his vessels doesn’t come from the warm summer storm, but the loss within him. His marrow hurts, the agony escalating with every movement. His lungs gulp for breath but his diaphragm refuses to move. He is slowly decaying in the loss of the sun. “You have to steal the car, get to safety.”

“I can’t, Neal, I don’t know how,” Peter says.

Grabbing hold of a gnarled root, Neal drags himself over to lie next to Peter. “Easy, the bug is easy.” Neal coughs and tastes copper. “I’m going to heal you, as much as I can, then you’re going to get us out of here.”

“Neal, you can’t heal me,” Peter says, putting his hand on Neal’s chest. 

Neal closes his eyes for a moment, savoring the thump of his heart against Peter’s hand. “You know we’re not safe.” The hard look Peter gives him confirms Neal’s statement. They are only yards away from the house, sitting ducks. “I’ll tell you how while I heal you. A three year old can do it.” Using Peter to lever himself, Neal gets into a sitting position. He smiles, and feels it is true and soft. “I should know.” He winks at Peter and leans over to rip the fabric of Peter’s pants.

He places his hand on the swollen flesh, feeling the wound yielding under his touch. The rain still washes over him, but he reaches for any sunlight, he pulls all the reserves he has from deep within his well of Empathia. He pushes it with nearly a physical force outward to Peter, to the fractured bone, to the bruised muscles. He repairs and feels the ache within his own leg, feels the last of his strength channel through to the leg. He hitches a breath as he drops to the ground.

Staring to the leaves above, he watches as the rain soaks the lands, blesses and curses him at once. He isn’t sure where Peter is anymore. He cannot move his limbs, he cannot touch him. He cannot feel anything. The waves of unconsciousness swim over him again, dragging him down like a riptide. He knows you cannot fight a riptide, you have to go with it, so he does.

He only hears a whisper of Peter telling him to stay with him, stay, Neal, stay. For the first time, Neal cannot follow.

*oOo*  
He wonders if this is what Neal was afraid of when he knew he was an Empathia. He hates to have to do this, but he doesn’t have a choice. The doctor leans over Neal and his friend scowls and looks away. The doctor has the injector and tells Neal he’ll feel a little sting. Neal nods and does not look at Peter who stands across the room with his arms folded and his heart bleeding.

The doctor pats Neal on the shoulder and checks the computer. “GPS tracker is operational,” the doctor reports then turns back to Neal. “Direct sunlight for the next few weeks, as much as possible.”

Neal pulls the cuff of his sleeve down and nods. He hasn’t spoken a word to Peter in two days. The courts ordered the GPS tracker had to be placed in Neal as soon as possible, even though Neal had filed a protest. Peter did not support the protest.

“Come on, let’s get you home.” Peter walks over and hands Neal his hat.

“I can take a cab,” Neal says, his voice edged and angry and scornful.

“If you prefer, but I would really like to take you,” Peter says and waits. He offers a hand to Neal. He is still weak from the deprivation and healing. Peter had been able to jack the car as well as get Neal to safety. When Peter drove to the nearest hospital, Neal remained unconscious. The hospital airlifted him to the closest hospital outside the storm zone. It took Neal three days before he regain consciousness, another week before he was able to walk again. After the incident, Peter requested a reconsideration of Neal’s case and the court agreed. Neal needed a GPS tracker to ensure his safety. 

They make it to the car in the hospital garage before Neal falters and Peter has to catch him as he descends to the pavement. He opens the Taurus door and helps Neal into the seat. Without a word, they drive to Brooklyn. He can see Neal wants to object but he remains silent. 

He parks close to the house and holds Neal’s hand the entire way to the house, helping him up the stairs to his house. 

“Go out on the back porch. I’m going to go pack some things. I talked with El and I’m going to stay with you for a few days until you’re back on your feet.” 

He deposits Neal on the back porch, and then kneels at his feet to unbutton his shirt. He tugs down the shirt to expose Neal’s chest to the sun. “Sit, rest, I’ll be right back.”

When he returns from packing a bag, he finds Neal standing at the edge of the porch, his face lifted up to the sun. Neal turns to him and he glimpses the wetness in his eyes. 

“I never wanted this, Neal,” Peter says.

“You’re the one who insisted.” Neal shows him the tattoo, the brand on his wrist that scales up to his hand. It has a GPS tracker embedded in it now. 

“It’s the only way,” Peter says. “The only way to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

“You know in some cultures the Empathia are able to hibernate their skills, their abilities. Scandinavia comes to mind,” Neal says.

“Do you know how to do that?” Peter says as he reaches across the expanse. Neal staggers as he tries to sit down. He falls with a heavy sigh into the chair.

Neal shakes his head. “No, but I could learn.”

“You could,” Peter agrees.

“But what use would that be, right?” Neal laughs yet it is mirthless and painful to hear. “I can’t imagine seeing you hurt and not helping, not healing you.” He bows his head. 

“Don’t make your decisions based on me, Neal. You’re not my personal Empathia, you’re my friend,” Peter says and it hurts to have to tell him, to make it plain to Neal that he is so much more than a skill, a talent.

Neal nods, but doesn’t look up at Peter. “Sure, I’ll think about it.” For a moment, Peter considers if Neal is weaving a con, but stops this train of thought in its tracks. He has to trust him.

“Home, then?”

Neal braces against the arms of the chair and lifts himself out. 

*oOo*  
Later, as Neal bathes in the afternoon sun on his balcony at June’s and Peter sits at his dining room table checking his email, he thinks upon the blessing, the curse of the Empathia. He understands this is one thing like prison Neal cannot con his way out. He corrects himself, even Neal could escape prison. Being an Empathia is part of his being. It is something he needs to accept.

Peter sits back in his chair. It is something he needs to accept. He needs to acknowledge that Neal has every right to put himself in whatever danger he sees fit, Empathia or no. He cannot protect Neal, he isn’t a child.

Standing, he walks the distance to join Neal outside. Neal has a tablet and he’s reading as he recuperates. The injection site of the GPS tracker is red still. Peter frowns. “I can get it taken out, if you want.”

Neal looks up at him.

“You have every right to be angry. I can get it taken out; I can file another brief on it.” Peter points to Neal’s wrist. Maybe it is their friendship, maybe it is the bond that they now share through the Empathia but Peter cannot see Neal as a caged animal.

Neal sits up straight and considers him a moment. “Don’t change who you are, Peter, not for me.”

“I could say the same here, Neal.”

Neal laughs and draws Peter closer. “Newsflash, Peter, you’ve already changed me.” At first, Peter takes this as an affront, but then he sees the sparkle in Neal’s eyes, the genuine smile. Neal grasps Peter’s hand and covers it with his other one. “You’ve made me a better man, Peter, no one has ever cared enough to do that. Don’t stop now.”

Peter squeezes his hand once and says, “We’ll find a way to make this work.”

“I trust you, Peter. I always have.”

That is all Peter needs to understand Neal.

THE END.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second story and only sets the stage for the next story which will encompass many of the new themes and challenges introduced in the first two stories.


End file.
